


Spirits

by tragic_fangirl



Category: Edgewise, Supernatural, Wendigo - Fandom, crossover - Fandom
Genre: Horror, Mystery, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 07:51:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragic_fangirl/pseuds/tragic_fangirl
Summary: Crossover - Supernatual & Edgewise - Bobby comes across an old 'friend' while on a case and after interrogating the son of a... they find out why the Hell he is back around town and the news isn't good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We all know (or should) about Supernatural but the character that makes this story a crossover fanfiction is from a Graham Masterton novel called Edgewise/Wendigo called John Shooks - he is not my OC but is a character that I have come to adore and thought he fit into the SPN world rather well. I have taken liberties with him as he will be so unheard of around these parts.

“You wait here boys, I'll handle this one.” Bobby Singer firmly told the two brothers. Dean was about to voice his protest, but the older man was already storming across the parking lot towards a stationary 1987 black Buick; Sam took a step to follow Bobby and despite his unspoken protest, Dean stopped him, putting his hand in the way. He'd only seen Bobby Singer look so determined once before – and that had been an equally entertaining moment! The back windows of the vintage vehicle were tinted dark green, the car seemed to be in decent order, if a little dated and over used, there was a couple of surface scratches over the rear bumper showing the car to be of practical use rather than part of a prized collection.

Beside the car a tall, slender man stood fumbling with his keys; the car too old to have thought of the prospect of central locking. He wore a broad rimmed, grey hat over his head and a set of Ray-Bans across his eyes, he looked like a throw-back and the fact his look hadn't changed over much from the late 1980's hadn't worked in his favour.

 “John Shooks, you gutter slime what the Hell are you doin' here.” Bobby demanded of the man.

 The moment Shooks turned around, a dense black brow raising questioningly above the glasses he was met by the older mans fist to the side of his face. He staggered back against the old car, leaning awkwardly on the wing-mirror snapping it off it's hinges. The familiar stranger slumped against the Buick before hitting the floor, dizzy and uncoordinated. Long legs sprawled like a squashed spider.

 Dean moved his hand away from Sam and they both arrived on the scene a moment later, in time to see Bobby hovering over Shooks, his expression hard and merciless. Shooks staggered to his feet unsteadily. His hat was lopsided on his head revealing a mess of dark brown hair. His skin was tanned and everything about him seemed to exude a feeling of mysterious darkness, or would do if his usual demeanour hadn't been assaulted and his lip and nose wasn't bleeding so badly, Bobby had walloped him pretty hard but had narrowly avoided the crunch of a broken nose.

 “Mr. Singer?” Shooks spoke, his question finding voice. He had a faint, dry Minneapolis accent with a slight lisp; as though he had been a native of the large city, but spent far too much time away from home to keep the accent true. There was also something else interfering with the accent; a hint to a Native American heritage, to faint to be pronounced. He took the time to carefully rearrange his hat and Ray-Bans before taking a ragged handkerchief from his black overcoat coat pocket, wiping his mouth before seeing to his nose.

 “What the Hell, Bobby?” Dean asked of his father-figure. It was a rare event that they all worked in the field together; and this was exactly why!

 “He deserved it,” Bobby protested, quickly glancing towards Dean.

 “I did,” Shooks confessed, but he didn't elaborate on the reason why, just shuffled uncomfortably, his voice sounding all the more strange for holding his nose with the hankie.

 “What's going on?” Sam put in, looking to Dean, then Bobby and then to the stranger before looking back between them all once again. Feeling like he'd missed something. Dean shrugged pulling a 'Who knows?' expression towards his brother.

 “Shooks used to be an asset,” Bobby said as though the man wasn't in front of him trying to get his nose to stop bleeding, he'd even tilted his head back in a vain attempt to stop the flow. “Could be I used to rely on him for information, 'til he stiffed me; left me and a couple'a' hunters to a sticky fate.”

 Shooks at least had the decency to look guilty.

 “You mean the Wendigo incident?”

 “None other,” Bobby replied, his tone of voice harsh; expression fixed on the saturnine man before him. Trying to stare answers from him. Waiting for a cowardly voice of protest from the thin man.

 “I warned you, Bobby,” came the expected complaint, his head lowering to face the shorter Singer. Shooks snorted loudly, hacking up blood from the back of his throat and nose, spitting it onto the floor, at which point he noticed he'd dropped his car keys. Dean followed his eyes and picked the keys up from the concrete floor.

 “Don't even think it, buddy.” Dean mocked, instantly taking the side of the tale from Bobby.

 “What do you want to do?” Sam asked, once again looking between Bobby and Dean, leaving Shooks out of the conversation – giving him no option but to leave the family to decide his fate.

 “I want answers,” Bobby replied, not looking away from Shooks - the penetrating glare near crippling.

 “Not here,” Sam protested, the parking lot was too exposed and if they hadn't caught the attention of locals they soon would do. “Take him back to the Motel, we can question him there?” The youngest of them suggested. They all nodded to the proposal; even Shooks who'd resigned to his fate. It was about time that the past had caught up with him and these doors were finally closed. He just hoped that they all got the answers they wanted, no matter what beasts the past could drag up.

 “I assume you'll be driving,” Shooks asked Dean, who in turn took a dour look towards the Buick.

 “No chance, that thing looks like a disaster,” Dean replied disdainfully throwing the set of keys to Sam – who'd have no choice in driving the car. For the first time they'd been reunited, John Shooks looked hurt by the comment. The car was all he currently had! He slowly lent forwards and picked up the broken side-mirror before opening the passenger door to ride shot-gun in his own vehicle. While Dean and Bobby made their way back to the much better suited Impala.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sam drove the Buick in silence. The car itself seemed to done more miles than the dial could count. He just passed off handed glances towards Shooks in case the man decided to bail; he didn't look the type to jump out the passenger door while in transit though. The silence was penetrating and to make the awkwardness go away Sam lent forwards to put the radio on.

“It's broken,” Shooks told him humourlessly, he'd have preferred it not to be – especially on the longer drives he used the Buick for. 

Due to the silence the drive seemed to be agonisingly slow so Shooks again broke the silence and asked. “Where are you staying?”

“St Cloud, Motel 6.” Sam replied with a raised brow.

“A bit up market for your lot, isn't it?” Shooks asked rhetorically before adding. “That's your exit,” He pointed to the side of the highway towards the slip road off the route they were already on, giving Sam directions if he didn't know where to go. They continued driving in silence, though it didn't feel as awkward as it had done earlier. They didn't bother making small talk and Shooks seemed content to casually look out of the window watching the green of the State pass by. It was a beautiful State, there was no denying it. Even at this time of year when summer was trying it's best to burn the life out of all it's rays touched.

“It's a few miles down here yet,” Shooks explained, as he lent forwards to put the cool air fan on. It was a warm, sticky day and the Buick didn't have any air conditioning – the fan itself made a rattling noise but it was one of the few 'mod-cons' in the car that actually worked. Hanging from the rear-view was a sandy coloured dream catcher, some of the feathers had broken off the dangling leather straps. Around the foot-well there was a lot of take-away meal boxes, sweet wrappers and empty cartons; the car was well past due a valet service. On the back seat was an alpaca blanket and an outdoor sleeping bag – to top it all off there was a musty smell to the car. It was pretty clear to Sam that Shooks had been living in his car for some time. He glanced over to the stranger once again and noticed that he'd gone rigid, his tanned skin seemed to have turned to an ashen shade.

“Stop the car,” Shooks demanded, though his tone wasn't angry, just filled with pressure.

“What?” Sam returned, as though the simple request was the hardest thing in the world to accomplish.

“Pull over, stop the car,” Shooks asked again, his speech hurried.

Sam glanced into the rear-view, Dean and Bobby weren't far behind so even if Shooks was trying some shady business, he'd have back up. He turned the Buick onto the side of the long, straight road and brought the engine to a steady stop. By the time the car came to a stand still, Shooks had both his hands on the front of the dash. His knuckles white as he gripped. He was taking deliberate steady breaths. In. Hold. Out. Slow. In. Hold. Out. Slow-

“Are you all right?” Sam asked, but if Shooks even heard him he didn't answer.

The Impala pulled up next to the Buick and Bobby wound down the window as Sam wound his. Sam's stuck a couple of times but with enough coaxing there was enough space for him to hold a conversation clearly. Bobby gave a fleeting glance to the passenger and rolled his eyes.

“Don't tell me your driving made him sick?” Bobby chided.

“Not surprised in that clunker,” Dean quipped with a cocky smile.

“I think this is serious, guys.”

“It'll pass,” Shooks added himself, trying to put Sam at ease. He pulled at the handle for the door so that he could get out into the natural air and steady himself, the door made a creaking sound as it opened. Whatever had happened to him in the car had passed as quickly as it had emerged and he took a heavy sigh and paced the length of the car a couple of times. 

“You guys go on ahead,” Sam assured Bobby and his Brother, “I've got this.”

“Keep an eye on 'im. He's a weasel.” Bobby pressed towards Sam, who nodded back. He could understand Bobby’s resentment towards Shooks if he recalled the details correctly, hell he could even understand the outright hatred Bobby felt. Yet the desire for answers about the past and present were winning out in the younger Winchester; What had Shooks done? Why was he here now? More importantly what was going on with the hunting case they were working on?

Sam lent over the passenger seat and called out of the open door. “You coming,” it wasn't a statement that gave the saturnine man any choice. 

Shooks was fanning himself with his hat as he made his way back into the car. The stretch of his legs and the fresh air had given him some colour back to his face.

“You all right, dude?” Sam asked as Shooks climbed back into the passenger seat beside him.

“Yeah,” he bluffed, pulling the door closed. He felt anything but fine, but he couldn't explain what had just happened; even with knowing Sam's broad minded nature towards the supernatural. “We should keep up, I wouldn't want Mr. Singer thinking I'd murdered you or anything,” Shooks said casually. With those words Sam put the car back into gear and tailed behind the Impala as best he could.


	3. Chapter 3

The Motel wasn't as up market as per the accusation. It was right on the money for the Hunters, low key and unassuming. A little further away from the hunt than usual; but they must have had their reasons for being out of the city. The room itself was decently decorated with a modern feature wall and matching duvets on the two single beds. The furniture itself was a little dated and the alarm clock on the side table was one of those that displayed numbers so brightly it would be a miracle if any of the rooms occupants would be able to sleep.

Dean and Bobby were already in the room talking when Sam and Shooks arrived. Sam was leading the man firmly by the arm.

Dean dragged over a mismatching chair to the middle of the room, “Sit,” He ordered and Shooks obeyed taking his hat off and fiddling with it in his hands. Turning the hat around in his lap, tracing the rim around in circles. His dark hair was limp and flat, long enough to be tied back into languid ponytail. With the hat removed it was easier to pick out the elements of his Native Heritage. However the dark Ray-Bans stayed in place over his eyes.

Before any of them could press the first question John Shooks spoke looking between them but especially at the two brothers. “You...” he uttered. “All of you, are so close to the borderline of the dead. Especially you two, I can't explain it, but it's like you've been so close to the edge you barely returned.” 

The three of them looked between one another, raised brows and confused to the outward statement that marked such a personal event in their lives. 

“Why are you here, Shooks?” Bobby demanded from him, not dwelling to much on the bold statement.

“Working, Mr. Singer. I have to make a living,” He answered quickly with a little quip towards his untimely capture.

“So you're a hunter then?” Sam asked, cutting to the chase.

“No, Mr. Winchester I am a Private Investigator. I've been hired to catch a cheating husband in the act.” He spoke plainly about his profession. “It's not my speciality, but it keeps the money coming in. People are paranoid things-”

He was cut off by Bobby, “Why'd ya do it Shooks?”

“What can I tell you that would make it better, Bobby? I told you not to tangle with powerful spirits. Hunting down a Wendigo was a foolish notion.”

“You betrayed us.”

“I left you some things that would help, and sure, I cut and ran. I did not want a vengeful power like that coming after me should you have failed.” He motioned harshly with his fingers. “Like I said, I'm no hunter.” Shooks shrugged casually, but even though the threat had long passed it was evident in his voice that the power of such volatile spirits scared him.

“You left us with nothin', good hunters died Shooks, don't you care about that?”

“Of course I care,” Shooks snapped back, a hint of emotion being displayed for the first time; anger mingled with confusion. “I left a key in an envelope for a storage locker...”

“Did you, Bull.” Bobby snapped once more, childishly. Moving towards Shooks, grabbing him by the collar of his black overcoat. He pulled the thin framed man roughly from the chair, Sam shot forwards holding Bobby by the shoulder to stop him, but Bobby just held the man – staring.

The protective sunglasses had fallen from Shooks' face, clattering to the floor. Once glittery black eyes had turned from open, welcoming friendliness to an unnatural white. Just the common dark well of his pupil remained and the hint of misty grey around the edge of the iris. The whiteness stood out stark against his tanned complexion. 

Bobby shoved the Private Investigator away as though he was an abomination. “What the hell happened to yer eyes?” The older hunter demanded; more questions for their interrogation. 

Shooks held his hand behind his back to steady himself against such a powerful shove, the wall jarred him sending shudders down his spine. He felt a chill cascade over him and unbidden his colourless eyes rolled upwards into his head and when he answered the question it wasn't his own voice that spoke.

“Don't,” The voice was soft, feminine and the two Winchesters instantly recognised it. “Don't hurt the innocent,” 

“Mom?” Dean looked to Sam, hoping for confirmation.

“What the Hell?” came Sams reply.

The face of Shooks smiled between the two brothers, warming, friendly – motherly. If such an expression was capable on a face as hawkish as his. “You've grown up so much,” The voice sounded genuine, proud and mostly affectionate.

The two looked to Bobby, but were cut off by another voice.

“I don't blame you, I can't.” It was Bobby this time who had been addresse by the voice coming from Shooks

“Karen,” He stated to the boys, clearly unimpressed by the display of the weird. He'd somehow managed to deal with his demons involving Karen when she'd been returned to him for that limited time a couple of years back. That didn't mean he approved of the past coming back to haunt him in the body of another man.

What followed was a cacophony of voices – some Dean could pick out, some Sam and others Bobby. Some of the voices they all recognised; Jo, Ellen. There were other voices in the mixture as well that were unknown. At one point, Sam could have sworn he'd heard the voice of Dean. Then Shooks' body began to convulse violently against the wall. So vigorously that the back of his head slammed repeatedly against the solid partition, every sense of control had been lost to the man. There was no way a person could act as Shooks was and still have any rational thought, his nose began bleeding again, red oozed down his face. With a sickening crack sound Dean reached for his Colt, but it was Bobby that stopped him. 

“This is important,” He told them both. 

“This has happened before?” Sam asked, alarmed.

“Not exactly,” Bobby answered.

Again their conversation was cut off, this time by another voice. One not so affectionate. A voice that sounded vile, wicked and filled with utter vehemence. Contempt drowned out the room with the spoken word. 

“Don't you know what you have awoken, what you hunt?” Shooks pulled a cocky, blood filled smile towards them, a trail of red dribbled down his chin. “What are you, compared to this?” The voice continued to taunt. 

A low buzzing hissed around the room, the sound of something hitting the window made Sam jump. He moved cautiously to the window as something else hit it. This time he didn't jump as a swarm slammed into the windows – oversized hornets, clambering up the clear glass as they searched drastically for a way into the room. Dean could hear them around the bottom of the door; the gap in the wood giving them enough clearing. He whipped the sheets off the bed and stuffed it into the space before too many of the giant things could wriggle their ways in. A couple of them made it, and Bobby armed himself with the best defence against such things; a rolled up newspaper. Sam moved from the window to close the air vents of the room, keeping as many of them out of the room as possible. Sam wasn't generally afraid of insects but these ones he could make an exception for! The size of the sting was enough to be cause concern in the most stalwart of people. 

“Bobby!” Sam shouted, and Bobby turned in time to see one of the big buggers diving for him. He back handed the newspaper and the bug went flying to the floor towards where Dean was standing; with no thought to his own regard Dean stepped on the hornet squishing it.

The swarm let out a hiss or anger and redoubled it's efforts against the window; individuals slamming and beating against it. Curled abdomens aiming at the cheap, brittle glass. So many that they steadily started blocking out the light.

A low, humming laugh came from Shooks. Starting as a chuckle before erupting into a malevolent roar. 

Bobby stormed up to the incapacitated man and struck him a heavy blow to the temple, once more sending him reeling to the floor. The laughter stopped short as the host lost consciousness, a low gurgling came from him, nothing more. 

The buzzing slowly started rescinding and light returned to the room. The one Hornet remained, looking strangely diminished in size. It landed bumbling on the feature wall of the hotel and Sam took the news paper off Bobby and flattened it with ease.


	4. Chapter 4

When John Shooks came back to consciousness, he regretted it. His head felt like it had been repeatedly slammed between a door and the nearest wall; using them both as a vice. He didn't moan, or even move. Just lay where he was trying to figure out his bearings – and what he could remember. He could hear a conversation, but it sounded distant; as though he had a goldfish bowl over his head.

“Look at the size, though. It wasn't natural,” Sam was saying. He was knelt down looking at the mess that Dean had squashed with his foot. He was obviously comparing the size of the two bugs.

“Ya think?” Bobby returned sarcastically – give the detective a medal.

“What was that all about?” Dean made a motion with his head towards the wall where Shooks had been.

“Dunno,” Bobby returned. “I mean, he could always resonance talk, but that was somethin' else.”

“Resonance talk?” Sam asked standing back up. He'd not heard the term before.

“Ah, how'd he explain it,” Bobby asked rhetorically, his head lifted to try and find the right terms before he answered. “'People leave behind an echo of themselves, and anyone with the sensitivity can pick it up'” He paraphrased.

Shooks chose that moment to stir, he raised a knee and his arm crossed his face the moment his eyes opened; a searing pain shot through them and he closed them again. Slower the next time he gingerly opened them. He felt something crackly on his face and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, when he looked at what it was he sat up with a start, feverishly wiping the dried blood from his face. “What happened?” He demanded of the voices that had been muffled around the room.

“Was hoping you could tell us,” Dean replied

John Shooks wanted nothing more than to slump back onto the soft bed; he didn't put to much consideration into how he got there, and fall asleep for a week. He felt utterly drained of all energy. Instead he clambered off the bed, he noted his hat and Ray-Bans from the side table, they'd been carefully placed there. One of the Winchesters he assumed to himself without speaking. He then moved towards the bathroom, “Do you mind?” He asked of the three, if he couldn't go back to sleep he could at least wash the mess that was his face.

Sam moved out of the way to let Shooks past. From the restroom he started talking; in between the sounds of running water, low uttered curses and the slipping of hand soap. “It's not really 'resonance speaking', not any more.” He started to explain from where he stood, speaking loud enough for them all to hear. “I mean, I can still do that,” he looked to the nearest Winchester boy; Dean, “It helps find missing people like you wouldn't believe. So many people talk to themselves and tell themselves what they're doing, where they're going. Behind closed doors, everything is private supposedly. And Kidnappers! They argue non-stop about where to go, what to do.” He added. “Makes the day job easier.”

“But this?” Dean returned

John Shooks rinsed his hands and wiped them on a towel, his white eyes glanced towards Dean. He left the restroom to pick up the Ray-Bans. He carefully put them over his eyes and instantly felt soothed for it.

“It's the next step in the 'resonance talk' it's a pain in the ass, really. 'Ghost talking.' Imagine, you're walking down the street and a little old lady bumps into you and suddenly, you're choking back words that aren't your own. All because this little old lady has known so many people in her life who've died before her that all want to have their last say to her?” Shooks explained, he sniffed and picked up his hat. “It's like that with you three. All of you.” 

“This is new,” Bobby stated.

“About ten months back, had my own tangle with death.” John Shooks answered. “Was hired to watch the wrong guy, beat me black and blue when he found me out – was hospitalized for three weeks; didn't think I was going to wake up. Got the eyes then too” His answer was casual and open.

“What about the bugs?” Dean asked, cutting the social talk in the bud.

“And the whole, spooky talk,” Sam interjected

“Bugs?” Shooks asked, a thick brow raising above the dark glasses “And, 'Spooky talk'?”

Dean put on his best impression of how Shooks had spoken, “What are you, compared to this?” Sam snickered at the poor impression. Dean shot him his best 'drop-dead' look.

Shooks shook his head slowly, looking blank. “I don't understand.” He looked to Bobby for clarification.

“You said something about hunting hunters, laughed and we were attacked by giant hornets,” Sam stated plainly, before Bobby could speak; knowing Bobby it would have only been sarcasm anyway.

John Shooks didn't look as sceptical as the hunters would have expected, he just gave one of his usual small shrugs. “What are you hunting?” He asked of them. “Seems like you royally pissed something off.”

“Oh no.” Bobby snapped. “You're not getting involved,” 

“I think I already am,” John Shooks returned, “If what you're saying is true, then whatever it is you're trying to hunt has just used me as it's puppet. I don't have to tell you I don't like it. You three, are going to be my best chance at getting rid of it. As loathe as I am to admit it.” He paused. “So, what're you here for?”

Sam had to hand it to the Private Detective, he had a point. He didn't seem to be phased by the prospects that something big, mean and not natural was going to be a part of his next pay-check either. As such, it was Sam that took the leap of faith that Bobby was so cautious to give.

“A series of murders,” Sam pulled over a map on the motel dining table, Shooks and Dean lent over it while Sam gave away what they knew. “All happening around this general area.” He indicated to a collection of five crosses on the map where the killings had taken place. 

“No links?” Shooks asked.

“Not that we're aware of. Only the manner in which they died.” Dean answered, “Looks like some kind of poison in the bodies, but no entry marks on the body.”

“Poison?” Shooks asked again. Repeating words that needed extra clarification. “From what?”

“Seemed to be snake venom, but with no puncture marks on the body it rules out malicious vipers.” Dean added.

“And they didn't 'voluntarily' drink it?” 

“No sign of force or forced entry to properties, if that's what you mean?” Sam added to the collaboration. 

“Couldn't you do that Ghost-Talking thing over at the place of one of these guys?”

“Seeing as whatever it is you're hunting used me as it's bitch less than an hour ago, I'd rather not risk it.” Shooks answered, this was going to have to be an old fashioned game of detective work. Not quick fixes.

“Could punch you out again,” came Bobbys suggestion.

Shooks looked in his direction feigning hurt. It was a possible, but not without exhausting other lines of inquiry first. “Know of anything that could do that to someone? The poison.” Shooks suggested without taking Bobbys recommendation seriously. 

“Not without leaving marks,” Sam stated.

“What else do you have?” Shooks asked looking to the map again. 

“One of the victims died from severe shock, anaphylaxis.” 

“Okay,” Shooks said slowly. “Anything else?”

Dean gave a shrug. “Was going to speak to some of the shock-vics family before Bobby saw you.”

Shooks nodded, something in the few clues they already had should be clicking into place and he knew it. Bugs, poison, puppetry. “Do you have any paper?” He asked Sam. Sam rifled through his bag as Shooks dug in his over-coat pocket for a pen. When the paper was given to him he traced a very crude copy of the map and it's details. He tore a piece of paper from the bottom and wrote his cell-number on it and passed it to Dean. 

“I'll do some digging of my own,” Shooks said. “I'll call if I find anything out.” He quickly put the hat on his head and made to the door of the Motel room, but turned back to Sam. “You've still got my car keys.” Sam reached into his pocket and threw the keys across the room towards Shooks, who caught them underhanded. With another quick movement and the shutting of a door. He was gone.

“You idjits!” Bobby cussed them before he got the chance to chase after Shooks.

“He seems to have something of an idea, more than we do.” Sam said defensively.

“And how is he going to ring you without your numbers?” Bobby snapped back. “I'll warn you again, don't trust him.”


	5. Chapter 5

“How long have you been interested in bee's, Mr...?” The gentleman asked.

“Longmore, Dean” Dean replied offering his hand towards the man. “And not long, Mr. Jeremiah, that's why we've come to you.” The two brothers were dressed semi-smartly, just shirts and trousers. Jackets would have been murder in the stifling heat.

There was a strong humming sound originating from the other side of the large, secluded house. Out in the middle of nowhere was the perfect place to keep bees, especially where the beekeeper could control the flora they needed to gather from. Although the term control was debatable in Mr. Jeremiahs case; the flowers had been left to grow on their own terms as much as the beekeepers giving his house a scruffy, unkempt appeal.

“Can I get you a drink?” Jeremiah offered, holding the door open for them to enter the cool of his house. The answer they gave seemed to allay any suspicions he might have had of the boys.

“Would be grateful.” Dean answered as he entered the house, carefully moving past the owner. The home itself was exactly that. A country home, with various photographs on the walls of a young family growing up. Several tacky ornaments decorated parts of walls and shelving. Dean stopped in front of one photographs, looking at it closely. Jeremiah hadn't changed much in the years, his hair had rescinded and turned grey, his stomach had plumped with age. He had retained a warming smile which was apparent throughout the series of family portraits.

Jeremiah led them towards the back of the house where the kitchen looked over the large expanse of land that he owned.

“Just you that lives here?” Sam asked, being casually nosy.

“Wife drives into the city regular,” Jeremiah answered getting some chilled juice from the fridge pouring it into a set of glasses. “What was it you wanted to know about Keeping?”

“Is it dangerous?” Sam asked.

“How'd you mean,” Jeremiah asked, “People don't tend to go round stealing honey, or anything like that.” He answered sceptically.

“And the bee's?” Dean asked after taking a lengthly swing of the cordial.

“Mostly harmless,” Jeremiah answered. “They don't tend to sting unless they're threatened. Kills 'em, you see. And they're mostly lazy creatures.” 

“What about Hornets?” Sam suggested.

“Nothing but trouble,” Jeremiah hissed. Like every good disconcerting bee keeper he hated wasps and hornets – they gave bees a bad reputation to those less educated about them.

“Could they kill anyone? Either bee's or hornets?” Dean asked another odd, abrupt question. 

Jeremiah laughed. “Not unless your allergic,” he answered.

The bee keeper gave them some other information about bees in other countries; killer ones in China, but they tended not to like the American Climate and had never been successfully imported. Not that many people had tried. And other than a hornet being able to sting you in the back of the throat they were just a nuisance more than anything. The news was a disappointment, they'd been hoping that killer bees were going to be the answer to their problems. Seemed like this case was going to be bigger than the quick distraction they'd both been hoping for. They thanked the man for his time and departed, not before Jeremiah offered to show them his hives and gave them his number in case they needed anything else.

**

“What now?” Dean pressed towards Sam as they both returned to the Impala. 

“Can see if Bobby found anything?” Sam asked, they needed to talk about Shooks without Bobbys biased opinion, thus far they hadn't found the words to start the conversation. Dean had almost shot the man without second guessing what was happening and that sat awkwardly with Sam. Even after all the time they'd been hunting together, after their personal experiences with unnatural beings and effects. 

As Dean drove the Impala back to the Motel; Guns and Roses blaring loudly, Sam dwelt on the words to use. He abruptly turned down 'Welcome to the Jungle' and sternly asked. “Would you have killed him?”

“We can't dwell on 'what if's' and 'maybes' Sam,” Dean replied “If Bobby hadn't taken action, who knows what would've happened. Why?”

“All things considered, he's something we hunt, right?” Sam steered the conversation.

“I guess,” 

“Seems harmless though,” Sam added with a measure of sympathy.

“Aside the whole, giant hornet, thing.” Dean returned flatly. “Besides, Bobby doesn't seem to think so.” 

“I'd rather give him the benefit of the doubt, he's not a hunter and what we know of Wendigo – no wonder he was scared.”

“Makes me wonder why Bobby had such a hard time with one though, seemed like Monster Hunt 101 looking back on it.” Dean mused. “Flare gun, boom, no more Wendigo,”

“Maybe he needed help tracking it or one of the victims? Like Shooks said, he makes finding missing people child’s play.”

“I guess,” Dean returned non-committal using the same stance again. He wasn't one to second guess Bobby's judgement. “Let's see if he gets back in touch first.” He reached forwards to turn the volume back up on the song and Sam lent back in his seat and resigned into his own thoughts. 

**

Back at the Motel Bobby was already waiting for them – unlike the boys he'd been made to suffer the full suit. He'd slung his jacket on top of a chair but was still sweating from the aftermath of bearing such well dressed finesse. 

“Any luck?” He asked the two Winchesters.

“Nothing,” Sam replied sitting down next to Bobby at the small desk “You?”

“Family seemed to think natural causes, the vic was always allergic to bee stings.” Bobby answered.

Another dead end. Dean looked towards the map again, seeing if there was a standard perimeter to the killings; but the milage was too random. 

“Natural causes my ass,” Dean stated; nothing in this case was natural. People didn't just end up poisoned to death – not for no reason. “They had to have done something, had something in common.” 

The five victims had all worked for different companies, all had come from a variety of family backgrounds. One was a homeless man on the street another a high-flyer for a relatively successful printing company. Sam had ran the background checks himself and come up with nothing that linked them together. It was frustrating. More so was relying on a man they hardly knew to have dug deeper than they could.

Dean lent over into Sams bag and pulled out their fathers diary, hoping to find some sort of answer to their questions. “Have you tried calling?” Sam asked Dean.

“Answer phone,” Dean replied recalling the voice mail message Shooks used; his own voice stating, 'This is John Shooks. Leave me a message or leave me alone.' Dean figured they were on their own already, which was why he had resorted to the diary – it had been a while since they needed to resort to it's knowledge. This was one of those occasions where they felt truly lost without it's council. Even Bobby felt stumped and he had many years on them. 

“I'm goin' for a drink,” Bobby announced and got up, leaving the two younger hunters to search for things via the internet and in books. 

Throughout the evening there were instances of when they thought they might have stumbled on something, but it was mostly a no-go. Sam decided to call it a night when he thought that searching 'Giant Killer Snakes' via Google was actually a good idea.


	6. Chapter 6

It was early morning when the knock sounded loudly at the door. The ratt-a-tatt-tatt started softer, but grew louder when there wasn't an answer the first time it sounded. 

Dean threw a pillow from his bed towards Sam, uttering “Your turn,” as he rolled over and fell back to sleep. With much protest Sam pulled on his trousers and went to the door. He opened it a fraction, just enough for Shooks to invite himself in. He smelt of roll-up cigarette smoke and greasy food. 

“Morning, boys,” He stated in a dry voice more chipper than he felt. He took his hat off and placed it on the table; quickly followed by his precious Ray-Bans. The boys had seen the truth of his eyes all ready so there was little point in hiding it from them further. His head was suffering from a case of hat hair and he hadn't looked like he'd slept all night; he hadn't, but that was beside the point.

“It's 6am,” Sam tried to protest, putting on the most whiney voice he could muster.

“Really?” Shooks asked with a raised brow, making his way uninvited to the mini-fridge. He hadn't had a drink in the last twenty-four hours and that was worse than a lack of sleep. “Did you figure anything out?” He asked Sam, ignoring the hour and wanting to get any business concluded before he attempted sleeping on the back seat of the Buick. He unscrewed the cap of a 25ml bottle of Famous Grouse, normally he'd prefer ice and a glass but he'd for-go the formality under the circumstances.

Sam wiped his face with his hand, trying to think what they'd got figured.

“Not really,” muttered Dean from underneath his bed sheet. “Just that bees aren't dangerous.” He added to his utterings.

“I got something,” Shooks confessed, not keeping the boys in suspense. “Not had any time to look into it too much, been watching a house all night; caught someone red-handed cheating. Partner was pissed and somehow ended up trying to blame me and duck out on payment. Anyway, all of the deceased were investing in a building project; not sure on the details yet.”

“How does a homeless man invest?” Sam asked, sitting down at the table. Recalling one of the dead, that didn't seem to make much sense.

“It seemed to be one of those, pay-what-you-will things. Community project of some sorts possibly?” he suggested, “Like I said, not had the time to run everything yet.” With that statement he brought the bottle up to drink from. “Aside from that one guy, anyway. Links all the others though,” It was sloppy work even for him, but at least he'd brought something to the table. 

“The one whose family Bobby went to see?” Sam asked dumbly.

“Which one was that?” Shooks asked, seeing as he had no idea which family it was. He'd not been here.

“The... Richmond family,” Sam recalled.

“That's the one,” Shooks returned slumping down on one of the dining chairs.

“The family seemed to suggest that was a natural death,” Dean put in, he wasn't sure if he believed it. “Allergic or something.”

“Possible,” Shooks shrugged once again non-committally. “There's more to this investment than I've got though, it'll take some more digging but it's a lead. The second victim, not the homeless, the one with the nice house in suburbia land,” He paused taking out a notebook from his overcoat pocket to look at his notes. “Mr. Benjamin Frank – should have remembered that name -” He said with a note of irony even through the barely stifled yawn “Seems he'd put a lot of money on this though, and I mean a lot. More than the three of us make in a year, sort of figures. You seen his family yet?” Shooks asked.

“Only the body,” Sam stated.

“Let me get a couple of hours,” Shooks said once again making his way to the door. Seems like the three of them had a trip to make. “We'll see what he has to say,” 

Sam gave Dean a glance to say that he didn't like the implication – but John Shooks had once again vanished before they could voice any protest; and the prospect of a couple of hours sleep was welcome after the rude awakening.


	7. Chapter 7

The house they'd come to was homely and much like the rest of the town seemed to be in a world of it's own. The front garden was tastelessly suburban with a neatly mown lawn, if a little long compared to the next door neighbours. A rose bush flourished in the dark patch between the garage and the house, not a usual spot for the thorny stems but it went ignored as the three made their way towards the front door.

Dean knocked on the door with a staccato confidence. The two brothers wore their usual formal suits for FBI impersonation. Shooks, he looked like Shooks. Still wearing the broad rimmed hat, dark glasses and equally as dark overcoat. The door was answered by a woman in her middle ages, her blonde hair flecked with grey strands, she was fairly nondescript wearing clothing that suited her frame and a silk scarf around her neck. Sam noticed she stood a little stiffer the moment she set eyes on their FBI badges.

“Mrs Frank?” Dean asked abruptly. “This is Agent Walters, I'm Agent Wesson.” He motioned to himself and Sam. “We'd like to ask you some questions about your husband, if it's convenient?” 

“Of course,” she answered, but eyed the third man suspiciously. 

“This is Detective Shooks,” Dean answered, giving honest name and title for their companion. “He's a specialist.”

Shooks tipped his hat towards her and gave a polite nod, “Ma'am,” 

The woman led the three of them into her house, she led them to the kitchen and looked at them expectantly; hoping that they would have some answers for her about her dead husband. 

"Did Mr Frank have an office at home? Somewhere he kept him affairs?" Shooks asked before any of them could get too comfortable, looking decidedly uncomfortable himself, his tanned skin had turned ashen as though all the life had been drained from his features.

"Yes," answered Mrs Frank hesitantly.

"It would help us a great deal if we could find out what he was working on," Dean added, taking the cue from the private investigator, elaborating on their reasoning for wanting to know. Sam simply nodded.

“I'll take you up,” She led them up a flight of stairs to what would normally be a spare bedroom. Inside was a desk littered with papers; some had been strewn on the floor and stepped over. A pencil pot had been knocked over too, the pencils never returned to it. Sam took a cautious glance around the room, but there wasn't anything untoward lurking in the corners. Mrs Frank shuffled uncomfortably before asking “Can I get any of you a drink?”

“I'd love a coffee,” Shooks piped up, he never drank the stuff but it took longer to brew properly than just asking for a glass of water, giving the three of them time enough to explore the room.

“She has got one angry husband looking over her!” Shooks said breathing a sigh of relief that she had left the room. Dean rose an eyebrow towards him and Shooks shrugged turning to the desk.

“What's he angry about?” Sam asked, picking up a pile of papers that looked like stock reports for a company he'd never heard of; nothing important.

“Their last conversation,” 

Dean opened a few of the draws, giving them a rifle through hoping to find something, but came up with nothing. There was the cord for a laptop to be plugged in but the hardware was missing. 

Sam picked up some of the papers that had been thrown on the floor, he uncurled a sheet that had been screwed up and passed it over to Dean, “Take a look.”

Dean squinted to see the lettering over the folds in the paper. He passed it to Shooks, the contents giving more details on the donation he'd made to the development that had been uncovered earlier in their investigations.

“Looks like he gave them a lot of money,” Sam stated.

“Do you know anything about the company?” Dean asked.

“Never heard of them,” Shooks replied looking at the letterhead.

The three of them searched further about the room, but found nothing out that that could be linked to what they were trying to uncover. 

“You mentioned their last conversation?” Sam pressed Shooks.

He nodded, already knowing where the question was leading them. He took off his broad rimmed hat and fanned himself with it blowing out a long breath. “I don't know, gents.” he confessed his hesitation despite having had the thought earlier that morning, he'd already flatly refused to commune with the dead knowing that something out there was lurking. Waiting for him to make a mistake. He honestly couldn't say if engaging in resonance talk would be just as attractive as letting the spirits use him as a conduit.

“We can handle it,” Dean assured, but it was no assurance at all. 

Shooks put his hat on the desk and ran his fingers along the edge of the table top. Dust gathered on his fingers and he flicked it away moving around the room. His hands clenched, his pearl eyes rolling up into the back of his head and he spoke in a voice that didn't belong to him. 

“How could you!?” The voice demanded, it took the brothers a second to realize that it was Mrs Frank voice that came from Shooks throat.

“It's an investment!” A mans voice shouted back.

“With no guarantee of returns!” Mrs Franks voice hit back “And so much money, what were you thinking? That money could have been saved for our children!”

The voices got louder as they continued to argue about what Mr. Frank had done without his wife's permission. Sam and Dean listened to the conversation intently, trying to pick up on any hints that could help figure out what is was that got him killed.

“Wait, Gail, come back. We can at least talk about this,” Shooks stated, bringing the eavesdropping to an end, just as Mrs. Frank returned with a mug of coffee. Shooks took the mug from her and fell into a sullen silence.

“I heard shouting, is everything all right?” She asked, looking quizzically between them.

“Everything is fine, Ma'am.” Sam assured, “I was wondering if you could tell us any thing about this?” He asked, passing her the piece of paper they had discovered.

“Oh. That.” Mrs Frank commented her brow knitting to a frown. “It was such a stupid thing, investing so much money into something that might not even happen. Giving away so much money for some community project down near the lakes. He was always a bit of a dreamer, but all those dollars so some rag-tags could build a community center.”

“You didn't approve, then?”

“No, it wasn't just the money he put down. He did it without even considering us. Consulting us. All that money gone to waste.”

“Waste? Surely city improvements are a good thing, Mrs. Frank?” Dean asked, trying to sound sympathetic, but falling short.

“The site is a derelict, Mr Wesson. Nothing there by thorns.” 

“You know where this is?” 

“Sure, down by Mille Lacs Lake.”

“I'm pretty sure that areas already well developed?” Shooks questioned. He wasn't entirely up to speed with the goings on within Minnesota, but was reasonably certain that the lake was a tourist hot spot. 

“Oh for sure,” Mrs Frank confirmed, “But not so much the northern section of the lake; nothing there but trees and water.”

“Do you mind if we take a copy of this?” Dean asked about the crumpled up bit of paper.

“It's yours,” Mrs Frank cursed, eyeballing the rubbish in his hands.

“Thanks,” he added, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. It seemed like the first solid lead they'd had throughout the entire case.


End file.
